


Jailbirds and Thin Walls

by zenonaa



Category: Dangan Ronpa 3: The End of 希望ヶ峰学園 | The End of Kibougamine Gakuen | End of Hope's Peak High School, Dangan Ronpa: Another Episode, Super Dangan Ronpa 2
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-26
Updated: 2020-01-26
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:08:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22426831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zenonaa/pseuds/zenonaa
Summary: 'Of what Nagito knows of the guy, which admittedly isn’t a lot, he knows that Izuru gets bored easily. The only thing that stimulates him is the unknown, the uncontrollable, something that their former leader, Junko, also relished in. And anything to do with Junko, Nagito should hate. If Izuru knows the song, then surely he would have no interest in it, yet not only did he request that Nagito sing it, but he joined in too.'Komaeda and Kamukura are in neighbouring cells.
Relationships: Kamukura Izuru/Komaeda Nagito
Comments: 6
Kudos: 106





	Jailbirds and Thin Walls

The holding cell that Nagito sits in reminds him of the one they kept Byakuya Togami in. However, despite their similarities, they’re not the same. Not quite. For one thing, the two rooms are in different cities, though Nagito doesn’t know where he is right now. There hadn’t been any windows in the van, and he had been blindfolded too. On top of that, the other cell had been repurposed, originally a storage room. 

Nagito doesn’t know what this used to be, if it had ever been anything else; but anyway, much like the other room, this one has had all the colour sucked out of it and the air feels very dry. It scrapes the inside of his throat. Their equally oppressive sizes seem the same as well. A couple of paces would take him to the opposite wall.

Across from him is a metal betch, fixed to the wall, but instead of using that, Nagito opted for the floor. He raises his only hand to his head and drags his fingers through his matted hair, pushing against tangles and knots, and when he presents his hand in front of himself again, he notices loose hair snarls his digits.

Thinking about losing all of his hair makes him laugh for some reason. Not once, but a whole lot. Must be the holding cell. Must be the sinking realisation of his situation, and if Nagito doesn’t laugh, what can he do? All he has done here is sit and sleep and sometimes sing under his breath. His barks puncture the air, and every time he inhales, his breath wheezes and his bones rattle.

“Komaeda,” someone states.

Nagito’s laughter peters out in seconds and his forced smile drops off in a fell swoop. That voice sounded close, but at the same time, muffled. He hesitates and as he shifts his weight, he glances behind him, at the wall. 

“Kamukura-kun?” he says.

“Why are you laughing?” asks Izuru Kamukura in the neighbouring holding cell, talking to him through the wall.

“Huh?” Nagito rasps, like he forgot about his mirthless laughter, then he shoves his hand against and up his forehead, but unlike before, he doesn’t comb through his hair. The heel of his hand rides across the surface of his scraggly white terrain. 

A few strands spring back into place. Izuru waits for an answer.

“Ah,” goes Nagito, cringing. “Did I disturb you? My apologies. I didn’t realise.”

Izuru doesn’t reply immediately. “Did something amusing occur?”

Nagito purses his lips in thought and rocks his head from side-to-side as he debates the answer to himself.

“In a way,” he says aloud.

“I don’t see what there is to find amusing in this situation,” says Izuru in that usual serious tone of his that would have been accompanied by that usual serious expression of his, which Nagito cannot see.

“But, do you ever find anything funny?” Nagito points out. He swishes a finger. “I suppose... it’s a verbal tic. We really are in such a hopeless situation, aren’t we?”

“There is a ninety-six percent chance of us perishing by the end of the month,” says Izuru.

Nagito snorts and tucks his legs into his chest. His lips contort into a grin as he imagines Izuru in the other room, probably sitting against the wall like him. Maybe even directly behind, and if a wall hadn’t been there, their backs would be touching. Maybe.

“Such optimism,” Nagito muses aloud, and he tilts his head back, staring up at the ceiling. His eyes creep slightly narrower. “But I’ll take your word for it. End of the month, hm? Perhaps we’ll make it to Christmas.”

The cell lacks any windows, and he has to trust the lights that switch on and off automatically to know what time it approximately is. Last he saw outside, which must have been several days ago, the sky had been red. Not exactly a wintery colour, but then, it had been red for some time now. 

As red as Izuru’s eyes. Nagito’s mind strays, thinking of how Izuru has been in the next cell all this time, possibly even listening in without Nagito realising, and he would have wrapped himself in that thought like one would bundle themselves in blankets had Izuru not piped up again.

“What was that song you were singing?” asks Izuru, and Nagito tenses a little. Indeed, a few times since they arrived, he had been singing. Though...

“I didn’t realise I was singing loudly enough for you to hear,” Nagito admits. He smirks, but it’s not all that strong. “Your hearing is remarkable, much like our Mioda-san’s. Not only are you a genius, but your body is superhuman as well.”

Izuru’s tone hardens but remains cold like ice. “I asked you what song you were singing.”

The beat of silence clenches tightly.

“I-It’s just a song I know,” Nagito tells Izuru, raising his hands. “I heard it during a karaoke session with one of my foster families, and I couldn’t get it out of my head afterwards.”

“Sing it,” says Izuru.

“Huh?”

“I told you to sing it.”

Nagito blinks, feeling his skin prickle, but he can’t decline the request. It’s like Izuru is right up in his face. He breathes and relaxes his body - well, as much as he can with rattling nerves, then he braces himself and lifts his chin. The room holds it breath.

“The flower of passion is burning. Look, this is how much I'm trembling,” croons Nagito, and he is shaking, very slightly. It seeps into his voice, makes it quiver too. Silence puffs between each line more than it should, and he sings the next lines with the same waver as the others. “If this fated life is scattered... Drowning in love, just let me die.”

It’s meant to be a briskly paced song, sang against the screams of an electric guitar, and he almost manages, but his lungs are made of ice, and with each inhale, exhale, web-thin lines crack across them. He rests the back of his head against the wall, knocking against it gently. Maybe it would be more appropriate to sing a festive song, but this one is apt too. 

“Burned by romance, my lips are parched,” sings Nagito as the rest of the room fades away, but he doesn’t. Nagito remains, and he stares forward. Electricity scuttles through him and his voice strengthens. “It's alright if it's pain. Please give me a dream...”

The room is bare and plain but that doesn’t matter. He feels bare too and sees himself, on the floor, and he sees Izuru, sitting with his back to him. Izuru, with his flowing black hair, stony features and warning red eyes. While Izuru will be wearing his smart monochrome suit, Nagito wears a black cropped jacket and a striped scoop-neck vest, dark red and olive green, all soaked in dirt. Nagito presses his head harder against the wall, but he doesn’t phase through and join Izuru on the other side. 

They stay separated, but that’s okay, because as Nagito sings the next part, he holds that image of Izuru close to his heart.

“The flower of reality is getting wet. Look, this is how much I'm seeking it out,” he sings, and his eyes widen as he hears Izuru’s voice blend with his as he sings too. 

Izuru must have learnt the words from listening to Nagito, who is still sure he never raised his voice when he sang it to himself in here. As he would expect, Izuru can sing well. Of course he can. His voice is controlled and no louder than speaking volume, but it’s not weak. It trickles through the wall between them and wraps ghostly fingers around Nagito’s body.

Of what Nagito knows of the guy, which admittedly isn’t a lot, he knows that Izuru gets bored easily. The only thing that stimulates him is the unknown, the uncontrollable, something that their former leader, Junko, also relished in. And anything to do with Junko, Nagito should hate. If Izuru knows the song, then surely he would have no interest in it, yet not only did he request that Nagito sing it, but he joined in too.

A smile blooms on Nagito’s face, and warms sets in at his chest. For a long time, Nagito resented his talent, a cycle of good and bad luck, but he wonders if that uncontrollable thing of his is something that attracts Izuru to him. Not just wonders... but he hopes this is the case.

He continues to sing. They continue to sing.

“The flower of reality is getting wet. Look, this is how much I'm seeking it out.” Their voices coil around the other’s, entwined. “Because my prayers are dyed red, I don't mind if I'm dirtied by love.”

They progress through the song in harmony, their voices filling otherwise silent rooms. Nagito thinks he can hear some of the others chime in, but he doesn’t dwell on them. He turns around and places his hand against the wall, and he knows it’s ridiculous to think that Izuru has mirrored his movement and put his palm there too.

“Everything of mine belongs to you.” Nagito’s fingers curl into his palm, and his grin haunts his face, teeth like tombstones. “So I want to be yours even more.”

His eyes creep shut and his forehead goes against the wall, and all the while, Makoto, Kyouko and Byakuya observe silently through the surveillance cameras, three silhouettes in a room lit up only by computer monitors.


End file.
